


Come Together

by The_Lady_of_Purpletown



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acts, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, Azerbaijan, Bare chests, Bending Rules, Crack, Czech Republic - Freeform, Denmark - Freeform, Estonia - Freeform, Eurovision rules, France - Freeform, Gen, Germany, Glitter, Grand Final, Hamster wheel, Ireland, Italy, Latvia - Freeform, Music AU, Obsession, Pre-Slash, Sort-of original lyrics, Stereotypes, Sweden - Freeform, Ukraine - Freeform, United Kingdom, belgium - Freeform, cyprus, live show, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6892834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Purpletown/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Purpletown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2017, Kiev. John Watson is the UK’s contestant for the Eurovision Song Contest, but everyone knows how well his country does there these days. As long as he’s on stage, he’s having great fun, but outside of his performance, knowing he doesn’t stand a chance, it’s all utterly boring. Until his manager decides that forming a friendship with France’s singer-violinist would make good publicity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Together

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Europe! (And everyone else who wants to read this.)  
> First of all: I don’t have a clue how things work behind the scenes of a big show like the Eurovision Grand Final, so better don’t read this if you expect any accuracy or realism. This is cracktown, deal with it.  
> I’ve also heard that there’s a chance that the 2017 edition won’t happen in Kiev but rather in Crimea. While I recognise the political importance of 2016’s winner, I just went with the easy option of using the capital and ignoring all politics in my story. Again, because crack. My own beta reader’s country doesn’t even get to compete in this fic, so don’t take it personally.  
> Hitting a few stereotypes will be unavoidable, but know that I don’t mean to insult any countries. 
> 
> I’d like to thank Tanouska, Seaweedredandbrown and Fie for their enthusiasm concerning this fic, which kept me motivated enough to finish writing it within three days. Extra thanks to Tanouska for being my beta.
> 
> Now, ladies and gentlemen: let the show begin!

John Watson let out a very deep sigh. Nothing was going to happen to him. Here he was, in Kiev, sitting on a bench and waiting for the next interview. Another chance to tell the world that no, he had no idea who was going to win the Eurovision Song Contest 2017 because weren't all the candidates _strong_ , but yeah, it probably wasn't going to be him. And of course he meant it when he said that he was proud to represent the UK - but that was the problem, wasn't it. The United Kingdom. The country that managed a few points if it was lucky and that only even made the final because it received a wildcard in exchange for funds. Known for mediocre entries that never had a real chance at winning because let's be fair, they'd put enough money in this show not to end up organising the next edition.

It wouldn't be any different this year. John's only purpose here was avoiding the scandal of not sending a candidate at all, but without the real thrill of the contest, all this glitter and glamour seemed vulgar and weak.

Although, he admitted to himself, that was only his bitter boredom speaking. Some of the other countries had really outdone themselves. The visual acts became more flashing and expensive every year and most of the singers in this edition could actually carry a tune. Even John’s song had been called decent in the press, having more of a chance than any UK act in the past seven years, but that still didn't mean a lot. No one would peg him as the winner, least of all himself. If he had to make a prediction, in the privacy of his own mind rather than on camera – where he had to gain sympathy by being diplomatic – he’d look to France or Ireland.

France's singer was a beautiful tall man with curly hair and a deep, classically trained voice, whose father was actually British, so John's presence became even more superfluous. There was no way John stood a chance against Sherlock Holmes, charming, violin-playing and lean.

Ireland's singer, on the other hand, looked completely forgettable. Extravagantly gay, yes, but this was Eurovision, so no one would look up twice at that. Nor would the naked, scarred chest of his blond bassist catch the eye for longer than a few seconds. And the song was pleasant, his moves were good, but... None of the separate elements were extraordinary. It was the whole that was perfect. In the blend of lighting, dance moves and the acrobatic black guitarist's wriggling, Moriarty stood at the centre like a spider, apparently unaware of all the things that were going on around him as he sang his sudden crescendos, but in fact tugging at light strands of his web until everything came to a dramatic climax. Europe was going to love it, and Ireland would possibly write another win to its record-holding name.

It wasn't encouraging, performing in a year with big favourites like that. One time, when John hadn't fully realised yet what a media circus this would be, he'd made the mistake of being honest.

"I don't expect much to happen to me in Kiev," he'd said as he went to get a drink.  
The next day his mail box had been full of fan mail from people of all genders who volunteered to _happen_ to him. He wouldn’t be trying that again.

 

“John.” His manager, Mike Stamford, startled him from his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“You can’t be sitting here like this.” Mike gestured at him, frowning. “You know they’re filming all over the place and you look... sad. Desperate.”

“I’m not,” John protested. “I’m just waiting.”

“But you do give that impression,” Mike countered. “To the viewer it doesn’t matter what you’re really thinking. You can’t look anything less than delighted to be here. Can’t you just talk to someone? Make it seem like you’re actually too busy for the interview so they have to rip you away from the people you’re joking with because you’re such a nice, normal guy?”

John raised his eyebrows. “Who’d want to talk to me? Have you seen how young most of them are? If Latvia’s contestant is a day over sixteen, I’ll eat my shoes.”

Mike chuckled. “I didn’t tell you to actually like them. Just chat with someone. Show the world how you’re all friends. You know what, go see Holmes.”

“And lose myself even more anglophile votes?” John huffed. “If they see us together...”

“If they see you together, they’ll see how different you are,” Mike explained patiently. “French elegance and British practicality.”

“No one wants _practical_ at Eurovision,” John spat out.

“Your act is refreshing, John. I know you’ve started to believe Norton’s myth about the UK being cursed, but if you look at the numbers we’re really not doing that badly. If nothing else, chatting with Sherlock Holmes could earn us some French votes. And it’s better than sitting here, isn’t it?”

John sighed and stood up, cursing Mike’s logic.

 

“Dull.” The head of dark curls was tilted back for a moment as Sherlock Holmes looked John up and down, before he returned his attention to his phone.

“Uhm, good afternoon to you too.”

Holmes sighed. “Your manager has sent you here to chat with me. I’ve been noted as a possible winner and I am connected to your country. Your manager knows you’ll feel less awkward talking to someone close to your own age and fluent in your native language, and he’s realised we’d look good on screen together. It’s obvious.”

John bristled. This man was all too aware that he was better than John in every aspect. Better voice, better looks, better song... Better _English accent_ , for fuck’s sake.

But then John realised that he couldn’t be the first who’d walked up to Holmes today exactly for this purpose. If everyone just wanted face time with you because it would link them to victory... Anyone would grow tired of all that insincere friendliness.

“Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s annoying. I’ll just...” He turned, but Holmes’ long arm shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t. However unoriginal, your manager has a point and if they catch you running from me so quickly it’ll be bad for both of us,” the deep voice rumbled.

John sat down next to him, shaking his head. “No wonder Eurovision is known as theatrical. We’ve got to act all the bloody time.”

Holmes smirked. “You sure know how to sound dramatic.”

“Excuse me?” John turned his head sharply. “I’ve seen your act. You never have any right to call someone out on their drama.”

“Oh, I’m only impersonating my brother at that particular point. He’s the real drama queen out of the two of us. Shame he can’t sing.”

John snorted. “Now I’m almost hoping to meet him someday.”

“A moment ago it was too much having to stay around me and now you’re wishing to meet my family?” Holmes’ eyes twinkled and before John knew it, they were both giggling madly.

“Ah, young love!” The heavily accented voice of the oldest contestant, Angelo from Italy, sounded. “To find each other at Eurovision... That is a triumph in itself.”

“What?” John’s laugh faltered as he stared up at the ballad singer. “We’re not... We’re just _talking_.”

Angelo winked. “I’ll be thinking about you two as I sing my song about _l’amore_.” Then he moved on to the table where his crew was waiting.

“Jesus.” John inhaled sharply. “You can’t even _laugh_ here or they’ll draw their conclusions.”

“Relax.” The corners of Holmes’ mouth were still curled up. “This is exactly what our entourage is hoping for. People will talk about us. They’ll pay more attention to our acts and remember us. With a song like yours, that could make all the difference.”

“What do you mean, with a song like mine?” John crossed his arms defensively.

“Oh, come on. You know what I mean. If they’d wanted you to win, they’d have let you write your own lyrics.”

John rolled his eyes. “I haven’t written anything in ten years. It was the logical choice.”

“The logical choice was to go with the talent shown in your _Afghanistan_ album.”

“You’ve... heard it?” John almost fell off the bench. “I didn’t even know... Did they sell it in France?”

“I’ve looked up everyone who’s competing here this week,” Holmes replied. “I assume the album didn’t do well back then, but times change. If you’d release it now, it would do much better, even taking into account how many people would download it rather than buy it these days.”

John just blinked.

“If you’d written something like that, the United Kingdom might have had a chance to win Eurovision for the first time in twenty years. As it is... Well. It’s been forty years for France, after all. Seems only fair that we get a go.”

“Glad to see you’re confident.” John let out a laugh. “So you seriously think _Afghanistan_ was good?”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “Clearly I’m not the only one, or they wouldn’t have sent you here.”

“John Watson?” A dark-haired woman with an earpiece and a clipboard strode over, followed by a camera crew. “John Watson, you’re up for the interview.”

“Yeah, on my way,” he said, before turning back to Holmes. “Sorry again. And thanks. I suppose Mike’s got what he wanted now. And it actually was a pleasure talking to you.”

Sherlock smiled. “That’s not what they usually say.”

“Good luck in the contest, Mr Holmes.”

“You too. And please... call me Sherlock.”

 

...

 

John stood waiting backstage, silver glitter suit in place, his dancers fidgeting with the collars of their dress uniforms. Following Croatia, Italy and Ireland, Germany had just cleared the stage after a very silly act involving a tourist who was trying to find his way through Europe with only a London ABC. And now it was time for the Belgian artist, who had somehow reached the final with a ballad in four languages. The song seemed to last forever, and John’s mind kept replaying the look of contempt the goth kid from Latvia had shot him. Obviously he wouldn’t get the vote from the youth, then, which left him wondering once again why he went through all this trouble.

And then the long minutes of the Belgian ballad had finally ticked by. His intro video rolled and the dancers found their places. The lights went on, the music started, and he walked onto the stage.

This. _This_ was why he was here. The thrill of the moment, the blood pumping through his veins, just him singing to the rest of the world. He was alive, letting his voice tell its story, the lyrics only there to carry the rhythm.

 

_I don’t understand_

_I even walked your dog_

_You refuse to talk with me_

_But I’m not a hedgehog_

_No, I won’t curl up in fear_

_I’ll go through fire for you_

_Diamonds chocolate world peace_

_I’ll make your dreams come true_

 

The audience cheered and John threw smoulder after smoulder at the cameras. Of course this didn’t have the weight of the songs from _Afghanistan_ that he wrote so long ago, recovering from war traumas that still haunted him now. A few critics might even be offended that his dancers wore an echo of a military uniform. But everyone in the audience was dancing and in the final chorus many were singing along. Perhaps he’d have come closer to victory if he’d used the subject of war, as Sherlock had predicted – but he wouldn’t be giving Europe such a good time. Their response was the real answer to the question he’d asked himself all day through press meetings, repetitions and nervous breakdowns.

The theatre exploded as the last notes of _I Don’t Understand_ played, John freezing in the middle of the stage with his right hand raised and his chest heaving. _Alive alive alive_ , his heart beat, and then he had to make way for the Czech Republic’s candidate, Miss Wenceslas.

“You were _magnifico_!” Angelo shouted over the heads of Azerbaijan’s group, who looked a little annoyed at the sudden outburst of Italian enthusiasm.

“Thanks!” John couldn’t suppress a wide grin as he manoeuvred through the green room. Mike would probably approve if he kept up his little game, so he diverted from the Union Jacks and headed for France’s corner.

However, Sherlock already had a visitor from another country. Moriarty’s still bare-chested bassist was leaning very closely to him. But in the party-like atmosphere everyone was touching and hugging all the time, and God knew how many cameras were on them, so John doubted they needed any privacy and he continued his path.

Only when he was close enough to register the bassist’s fierce hiss did he realise that the man was _threatening_ Sherlock.

“I’m telling you once again, Sherly. You better make a mistake, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” The tall blond man had his back to John, so he jumped when John grabbed his naked shoulder and pulled him away from the French singer.

“Really?” he said, looking the muscled giant in the eyes. “You’re making threats while you’re on _Eurovision_?”

The bassist huffed in contempt. “I didn’t ask you anything, English. Didn’t _need_ to, with that rubbish of yours.”

“You run off to your Irish mates or _you_ ’ll regret it,” John growled.

With an unimpressed look, the bassist shook off John’s hand and went.

“Pathetic,” John bristled as he sat down next to Sherlock. “They’ve already had their go and what? They’re so disappointed in themselves that they try to make others fail?”

Sherlock shook his head, looking at John oddly. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just coming to say hi. You know... To pass the time.”

“Your manager’s idea again?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head a little.

“No... This time it was all me. I guess I was just... you know, a bit too high on adrenaline to sit down in my box and watch an act I’ve already seen twenty times.”

“So you came to me.”

“We talked earlier... If you need to be left alone to prepare I’ll go, of course, I just thought...” John began.

“No, it’s fine. You just... surprised me,” Sherlock said, before sitting back and staring straight ahead.

“Yeah, speaking of surprises... What was that all about? I hope you won’t let that prat get to you.”

“If anything, he’s convinced me even more that I need to win,” Sherlock replied. “And to answer your question... They have no reason to be disappointed and it’s not about making ‘others’ fail. It’s about making _me_ fail. His boss Moriarty and I... we have a bit of history.”

“Oh, damn,” John said. “Bad luck having to compete here against someone you know.”

“It had nothing to do with luck,” Sherlock pointed out. “Jim only sent in a song as soon as he heard I’d been chosen for France. His big wish is to humiliate me publicly.”

John frowned. “What did you ever do to him?”

“Break up with him,” Sherlock answered, shrugging. “He came on holiday in France as a teenager, we hooked up and he believed that writing letters to each other after one week would save our ‘relationship’, as he saw it, enough to make it last until we could marry each other.”

“Wait, what? And he’s still not over that?” John stared at him.

“Over it?” Sherlock snorted. “Even the title of his song is directed at me. _IOU_. I broke his heart so he’ll burn mine.”

“Geez.” John shook his head and marvelled at how crazy some people were. “How did they even find him mentally stable enough to come and perform here?”

“He probably knew someone somewhere who could be blackmailed or bought. Or... Maybe Ireland just misses the victory. I can’t deny that he’s talented.”

“Yeah, and I don’t suppose he’s the only lunatic singing tonight.” There had been a lot of rumours about Charles Augustus Magnussen, the man behind the Danish entry, which might have survived the semi-final thanks to some generous donations to the jury. If it was true, he’d paid so well that no one wanted to give up the evidence. And without that, there was no reason to disqualify Denmark.

“You can’t let him win,” John said gravely.

“I won’t. But it will be up to the jury and the televoters.” Sherlock shrugged again and pressed his palms together under his chin.

“When will you be up?” John asked thoughtfully.

“Nineteenth.” The Frenchman had returned to staring straight ahead.

John nodded slowly. Sherlock’s act was brilliant. The way he handled the violin with his long fingers, the fireworks, the contrast of the tight purple shirt under the billowing coat, all supported by his beautiful voice. But would it be enough against Moriarty? The more John thought about it, the more he doubted it. Depending on the viewers’ taste, it might go either way. Sherlock would need something special, something extra that would draw in the voters.

“What will he do if you _do_ win?” he asked eventually.

Sherlock’s gaze moved away from the Hungarian act that had just started. “I don’t know. But I doubt it’s an empty threat. He knows all kinds of thugs like that bassist of his. My life could become pretty dangerous.”

“But you won’t give in.” John studied his face.

“Of course not.”

John nodded slowly. “Well... I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. I’d happily offer you my votes if it means beating someone who’d steep so low as to blackmail people.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn’t work like that,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Right,” John said. “Let’s just hope you don’t need it, then. I’d better get back to my box, they’ll want interviews when they’re halfway...”

 

...

 

But as the acts proceeded, John couldn’t help but keep an eye on Sherlock. He seemed calm and almost passive, and apart from the goth Latvian he was the only one who didn’t switch on a giddy expression as soon as a camera was around. John wondered if it wouldn’t be better if he _did_ , but if it meant he was coming up with something to give his act that little extra, John supposed that would have more effect than a few smiles and some flag-waving.

Finally Cyprus was finishing up its cat act (complete with ears, tails and meowing), so it was Sherlock’s turn to move backstage. But as he passed the Irish box, the bassist’s leg shot out, tripping him up.

John was on his feet before he knew it. Jumping over a dais, he was just in time to catch Sherlock’s arm and keep him from planting his gorgeous face in the sparkling velvet floor.

“Careful,” he said, aware that all eyes were on them.

For a moment Sherlock could only stare at him, still leaning his weight on the point where John gripped him tightly, but then he straightened and nodded. “That was... fast thinking. Good. I mean... Thank you.”

John smiled wryly. “You’re welcome. Better keep moving, Sweden’s song isn’t that long.”

“Right.” Head high and coat flapping around his ankles as he gained speed, Sherlock walked over to where an assistant was waiting with his violin.

John followed, set on fighting off anyone who tried anything else, even though he knew that chance was small.

“Told you,” Sherlock muttered between his teeth once the assistant had left. “Jim’s obsessed with the thought of humiliating me in front of the whole world.”

“And he doesn’t even do the dirty work himself.” John glared in the direction of the green room. And realised only then that he should, in fact, have stayed there himself. But now that he stood here, not even an hour after he’d thought he’d never be on that stage again, he suddenly saw it all very clearly.

“Sherlock...” he said.

Sherlock frowned at him, probably thinking that he had better things to do than listen to a mediocre British singer, with less than two minutes to go before he had to perform.

“I’ve been thinking... I could join you on stage. Show people that if they want to support the UK, they might as well vote for you. Because you’re half British.”

“What? John, don’t be ridiculous. All you’ll do is get me disqualified. The rules state clearly that I can’t change anything about my act at this point.”

“But it wouldn’t be your decision, would it? I’d just be there. They could punish _me_ , but how can _you_ help it if an overly enthusiastic fan runs onto the stage with you and starts singing along?”

Even as he said the words, John expected Sherlock to send him away and scoff that he’d had his three minutes of fame, now piss off. But there was actually a hint of thoughtfulness in those ever-changing camera-loving eyes.

“I suppose the message of _Whatever Remains_ will be more striking if there’s actually someone with me with whom I have real chemistry,” Sherlock mused. “And... I suppose you’re right that it’s worth taking the risk. I may need a stunt to defeat Moriarty.”

John was torn between nodding and gaping at him, so he did both, with probably didn’t make him look very intelligent. But Sherlock didn’t seem to care and straightened, his face full of determination.

“Fine. Join me after the first chorus. Enter the stage from the other side, not from the back, so they don’t see you coming.” He pushed a microphone into John’s hands, and with a nod John found himself running behind the large video wall at the back of the stage. Sweden’s song – by some idiot called Phillip Anderson – was over now. Sherlock’s intro video had started, so everyone was getting ready.

It flashed through John’s mind that they hadn’t even warned the dancers, but he kept running, the thrill he had felt when he had been on stage earlier easily doubled.

As he arrived in the shadows of the black side wall, he rested his hands on his knees, deepening his breath so he would have stopped panting when it was time to come out. Sherlock had started singing and John had to suppress a shiver at the deep vibrations, tangling with the violin’s high notes. It sounded impossible to improve, and yet John imagined that his own voice would become a bridge between the two lines, steadily carrying the song even higher. He wondered if there was a chance of seeing Sherlock before he walked onto the stage himself, and shifted - bumping into Estonia’s hamster wheel, which had been stored there after their act.

For the duration of three seconds, John pictured himself arriving on stage inside it, his glitter suit catching the light as he ran just hard enough to make it move forward. But no, that was absolutely ridiculous. He wasn’t there to earn Sherlock _that_ kind of attention. All he was doing was highlighting the brilliance of Sherlock’s act, and somehow it felt very _right_ to help the man out at the very last moment, to be part of his victory mere hours after they had talked for the first time.

Sherlock had reached the chorus now, and John’s heart started beating even faster. He was doing this. Never in the history of Eurovision had a candidate invaded another country’s song.

Now the violin’s short interval before the second verse played, and John straightened. This was his cue. He connected the microphone and walked into the light, right up to Sherlock.

The audience screamed and burst into applause, clearly delighted that the evening still offered a surprise.

“John Watson! John!!!”

But John hardly had eye for the sea of waving flags. Sherlock, tall and gorgeous and clearly in his element, singing with the violin loosely in his left hand, turned towards him on the last line of the verse, and John’s heart jumped as he smiled at him. Not one of those camera-smoulders, but an appreciative smirk that almost made John forget that he was here to join in the song. However, his elbow automatically bent, bringing the microphone closer to his mouth, and then his voice weaved through Sherlock’s, softening and strengthening at the same time.

 

_Heroes don’t exist and if they did_

_I wouldn’t be one of them_

_Just walking in the street shouldn’t be_

_An act of braveryyyy_

 

_Eliminate the impossible_

_Celebrate the improbable_

_For when they see the truth_

_Whatever remains is a spatter of blood_

 

And if John thought the theatre had been noisy when he arrived, he had no words to describe the explosion of cheers as Sherlock returned to his violin. John couldn’t help laughing out loud as he danced along to the tune – fortunately remembering to keep his microphone away so his laughter wouldn’t ruin anything. His own performance had been great fun, but this? This was magic happening.

The song built to its climax, the light fanning out into elegant purple and black flowers, coming together in a large rainbow-coloured skull as the fireworks started. Sherlock and John sang together loudly, directing themselves to the audience without worrying much about the cameras. But as they started the last line, Sherlock grabbed John’s left hand and they looked each other in the eyes.

 

_Whatever remains is a spatter of blood!_

 

And he raised their hands together, still looking down at John with an expression that could only be described as _happiness_ , and John felt as if time had frozen on that point and they stood there forever, for all the world to see.

Still, it couldn’t be more than a few seconds before Sherlock finally lowered their hands again and directed a “thank you, Europe!” at the audience before the lights went out and Israel’s intro video started.

 

Backstage, no one talked as they got rid of microphones and the violin. There was nothing to say. Every time John’s arm brushed Sherlock’s as they walked back to the green room, he thought he heard electricity crackle through the air, and yet it felt so... companionable.

In the green room, people in a few of the boxes started clapping, immediately shushed by people gesturing towards the stage, where the next act had begun. John also noted some glares, but the sour faces in the Irish box were worth the animosity from the other countries. And even if everyone in the UK hated him now... John wouldn’t have missed the experience of singing with Sherlock for the world.

It was almost physically painful to step away from the French singer and sit down in his own box. Sherlock’s gaze lingered on him only for a moment, but he still didn’t say a word and didn’t look back to John after that.

And then Mike stood behind John, leaning in to speak in his ear. “What were you _thinking_?”

“I...”

“I told you to _talk_ to the guy. Not to sing with him! If you were so bored you felt it necessary to get disqualified, then why did you even accept to do this?”

“It will be fine,” John whispered back, wondering if he was reassuring Mike or himself. “It’s good publicity.”

Mike huffed. “Let’s hope. I guess we can’t change what happened now, but don’t come crying to me if this ends in drama.”

 

The remaining acts passed in a blur. John couldn’t possibly pay attention. Instead he was replaying the French performance in his head, wondering how it would have looked from the audience’s perspective. How much chaos would they have caused? Would Twitter be full of hateful messages? He wasn’t too worried about Tumblr’s reactions, though – as long as he didn’t have to read the slash fiction that had no doubt been published minutes after their act, it was all fine. But would the jury even keep Sherlock in the competition? Sherlock had agreed to John’s idea, but if it really came to that, would he ever be able to forgive him?

It wouldn’t be long now before they found out. Bulgaria finished up the last act and after a few jokes from the presenters to make people vote, the first recap played.

“John!” Angelo almost stumbled in his haste to leave the Italian box. “You’ve got to hear this!”

He held out his phone and John couldn’t help but stare for a second as he saw himself next to Sherlock, frozen on the screen. Hell, they _did_ look good.

Then Angelo hit play and a very excited male commentator’s voice sounded over the applause.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, this is _marvellous_. I don’t care that they’re breaking the rules, they’ve won at least the internet and probably also the show! I’m sorry, I really rooted for Jimmy Moriarty, but... John Watson stole the victory and gave it to France. _France_! And I don’t even _care_!”

“You... You know Graham Norton in Italy?” John asked, blinking.

“Are you crazy? Everyone in Europe watches it with his commentary!”

“Oh. But... You’ve got your own commentators, don’t you?”

Angelo rolled his eyes. “They’re never as funny. Anyway, you’ve heard him! Congratulations!”

John laughed. “It’s a bit early for that. And... I’m not French, remember?”

“Oh, knowing that boyfriend of yours, you’ll be living in the Provence by the end of the month. Pop over to Italy sometime, will you? I would be happy to cook for you two!”

“Uhm...” John managed, but at that point one of the presenters arrived at the green room, so Angelo rushed back to the Italian box before John had the chance to tell him that singing a few lines with Sherlock didn’t make them a couple.

 

It was no surprise that the presenter went straight to Sherlock as soon as the recap ended.

“Sherlock Holmes! People all over the world are talking about your act. What happened?” she said in charmingly accented English, but Sherlock didn’t get a chance to reply as she turned towards John. “Perhaps it’s easier if John Watson joins us to explain!”

John nodded and made sure to walk confidently, as though the French box was indeed where he belonged. He sat down at a polite distance from Sherlock, but the taller man immediately closed the space between them.

“So, John Watson, can you tell us about your migration plans?”

John laughed. “Yeah, no, so far I’m feeling very good in Britain.”

“From what I’ve heard, the jury is having some difficulty deciding what to do with you two,” the presenter informed them. “This kind of thing has never happened before.”

“No, I understand that,” John said. “I just hope Sherlock won’t be the one to face the consequences. Joining him was my decision. It was all very spur of the moment. Suddenly I just felt I should be on stage with him. We’d been talking, there was a click, and... All I wanted was to stand with him and sing. I’m pretty sure Sherlock felt the same way. But I take full responsibility.”

Sherlock’s dancers let out some relieved whoops.

Clearly catching the gist of the story John wanted to sell, Sherlock tangled their hands together and rested them clearly visible on his thigh – which was definitely more comfortable than keeping them squashed between them.

“As you know, the message behind my song is to condemn violence,” he said. “And more specifically, it criticises those places where you can't go out with the people you love without getting beaten up. So, while it is kind of John that he’s willing to bear the consequences alone, I’m glad he joined me. I’m making a statement by singing with the person I want to sing with, whether it follows the rules or not, and I will take the consequences.”

John smiled at him, probably looking quite besotted to the viewers, but in fact showing Sherlock that he recognised how the Frenchman’s words had saved both their skins. Putting it that way, the jury had almost no choice but to keep them in the game. If they'd cause a riot either way, they'd at least want to join forces with the tolerant side.

And clearly it struck a chord with the presenter as well. Beaming at them, she leaned over and squeezed their joined hands. “Personally I can only hope that an expression of love like this, live at Eurovision, will get a fairytale ending. Best of luck, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson!”

She moved on to the next country, and John smiled at Sherlock again, who winked.

“You may as well stay here,” he rumbled.

John nodded. “We were pretty brilliant, weren’t we?”

“I’ll win,” Sherlock stated.

“You deserve it.”

 

...

 

When it came to impressive interval acts, Ukraine had clearly taken notes during last year’s show in Sweden. There was a very spectacular dance act and then a performance by Ruslana that would, as usual when it came to these acts, easily have won the competition. Maybe even from Sherlock.

“You’re crushing my hand,” the Frenchman pointed out when the last recap started. He seemed just as calm and confident as he had been just after the interview, but John was getting more nervous by the minute. There hadn’t been another word about the jury’s decision, and getting one of the presenters’ support didn’t mean anything.

“Sorry,” John muttered, wishing his fingers would actually respond to the command of loosening their grip.

“It’s fine.”

And somehow, those ridiculously simple words seemed to mean so much more that John actually relaxed.

 

That was, until the presenters started talking again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the lines are now _closed_!”

“And of course you’re all wondering, even now, if everyone is actually still in the game. Isn’t there this rule that no one is allowed to alter their act or song after the Meeting of the Heads of Delegation?”

The camera moved to the EBU’s Executive Supervisor, who seemed a little surprised at that turn of events. “Oh. Yes. Indeed. You must be referring to clause 1.2.2 (g) of the official Eurovision rules.”

“So what exactly does this mean for this year’s entries for France and the United Kingdom?”

John was pretty sure he was bruising Sherlock’s hand, but he couldn’t help it.

“Well,” the Supervisor answered, “we have discussed the matter and yes, if you read the rules very strictly, there has been a broach. However-“

But the professional voice could no longer be heard over the audience’s booing.

The Supervisor cleared his throat. “However!”

“Please, Mr Sand has more to say!”

It took a while, but the presenters managed to calm down the audience. John had pressed the hand that wasn’t in Sherlock’s under his thigh so he couldn’t be tempted to bite his nails.

“However,” the Supervisor repeated, a little miffed at all the interruptions, “we came to the conclusion that this violation is so minor that it doesn’t merit punishment. There are no changes in the song, the light or the choreography. There was only an addition in the group of Mr Sherlock Holmes, namely that of Mr John Watson, who was already known to us. This left Mr Holmes’ group within the limit of six people on stage.

“And now I refer to clause 1.2.2 (c), which tells us that a certain artist is only allowed to perform for one country in one year. But Mr Watson did not take over Mr Holmes’ act; he merely added to it. So, after we heard their defence, or rather their arguments for acting as they have done, we have decided to leave both competitors in the contest. It will, however, be impossible for the UK to win the Eurovision Song Contest 2017, as we feel some kind of rebuke is in place, but we will show the points as we’d usually do.”

This time, the audience’s reaction was far more positive and even more enthusiastic.

But the outraged cry from the Irish box in the green room almost rung over it.

“They broke two rules! They should be disqualified! It’s not fair!” Jim Moriarty screamed.

The scarred bassist whispered something, and after a few more angry cries Moriarty returned to glaring silent daggers at France.

“Yes, the jury agrees: that was a beautiful example of nations helping each other out without debate,” the female presenter who’d talked to them earlier stated.

“And a fine act they made,” her colleague agreed, before introducing the final interval act.

 

“We’re still in the game,” John whispered to himself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and wiggled his fingers, probably trying to restore the blood flow after John had finally reduced his grip. “Of course we are. It’s Eurovision. The rules are _guidelines_ , but they won’t win from ‘true love’.” He snorted.

John laughed and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. “I don’t think I’d have forgiven myself if this took you out of the contest.”

“But it didn’t. It helped me win.” Sherlock still sounded certain, so John decided the easiest he could do for now was believing him.

 

Either the final act was less impressive or maybe John was just too eager to see the points to appreciate it, but at least it was short.

Just like in 2016, they started by giving the national juries’ results, hopping from country to country, but leaving the public televotes for the second round. Sherlock – probably keeping in mind that he still needed his hand if he wanted to continue his career as a violinist – kept John more or less distracted by uttering a long string of deductions about all the presenters. As John sat giggling, he thought that at least the story about their irresistible attraction would be believable. But he was also amazed at how true Sherlock’s observations sounded. How had John managed this? How could he be sitting next to the smartest, hottest man in the whole theatre while having written Eurovision history? Because he had, whatever happened now. They’d be remembered. Even if Moriarty ended up winning, _they_ would be the ones people talked about.

And for a long time, it looked like that would indeed be all. There were only a few countries to go, and then the results of the jury voting would be known. And while France was pretty steadily in second place, Ireland took the lead with many points. The UK jumped all over the place, once even touching the top 5 after getting twelve points from Malta, but that hardly seemed to matter to John.

 

At the end of the jury round, the presenters did a short interview with Moriarty, who was terribly smug and dropping hint after hint about winning through fair play. John was rather impressed by the flexibility of Sherlock’s eye muscles as he rolled his eyes at nearly every word the Irishman uttered, and then the presenters returned to the ranking. The first numbers from the televoting didn’t change much. Sixteen countries danced around on the board, but it was only the ten that came afterwards that would make any difference, so from that point on, the presenters slowed down, building suspense. To John’s surprise, the UK had reached the eighth place in the televoting. He cheered with his group, almost waving the wrong flag, which made Sherlock snort next to him. When the cameras had moved away, he quickly dropped the Union Jack under his bench so he couldn’t make that mistake again when it was time to wave the French Tricolour.

With every country that was named, he prayed harder that the next one wouldn’t be France yet. Ireland’s televoting points hadn’t been announced yet either, so it could go either way – as the presenters reminded the audience time after time.

“Relax, John,” Sherlock mumbled for the umpteenth time, but even his stoicism seemed to have broken at last and his grip on John’s hand was tenser than it had been all night.

Finally there were three countries left. Azerbaijan, France and Ireland.

“221 points go to...” the presenter read.

_Not France, not France, please say Ireland_ , John’s mind sang.

“Azerbaijan!”

Sherlock let out a frustrated grunt. “Come on, don’t draw it out.”

John leaned a little against him in agreement.

“Now, the moment of truth!” the presenter said in a mysterious voice, and John had to remind himself that throttling the man would mean that they’d probably never know the result.

“In second place according to televoting, with 275 points... Ireland!”

“Oh fuck,” John breathed. “Is that enough?”

“And then only France is left, with no less than 380 points! Yes indeed, that is enough to win, combined with the jury points! It seems like the public can appreciate spontaneous actions!”

“The winner of the Eurovision Song Contest 2017 is France! Congratulations, France!”

Sherlock was on his feet before John had the time to register the words and he pulled John into a tight hug.

“We... we won?” John uttered dumbly.

“ _I_ won, John,” Sherlock corrected, but as he pulled back he was looking down at John so fondly that John couldn’t help but start laughing again.

“Oh my god... We didn’t get kicked out. And you won. I can’t... Congratulations!”

“You too,” Sherlock replied, grinning. “Come on, we need to sing it again.”

“But... _We_? You want me to come?”

“Of course.” Sherlock still hadn’t let go of his hand. “Europe has chosen the act as it was. With you. So giving them that again is the least we can do to thank them.”

John laughed and let himself be dragged along, wondering what had become of his life. He was doing the winner’s repeat act, even though he’d only ended ninth in the combined ranking. Was he dreaming? Had he really been holding Sherlock Holmes’ hand for over an hour?

But as they went through the routine of adjusting microphone packs and checking if clothes hadn’t been creased after sitting so long, it was clear that yes, this was happening.

When they were ready, Sherlock took his hand again, and this time they went on stage together, grinning at each other all through the song.

 

_Whatever remains is a spatter of blood!_

 

And on that last word, without even pretending to play the end note, Sherlock pulled John close and kissed him. If anyone had told John he’d be kissed by a male near-stranger on the stage of the Eurovision Grand Final, he’d have declared them crazy – but in fact it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The following days were going to be hell. The press would be all over them, people would moan about foul play and jury favourites, and they wouldn’t get a moment’s rest. But as John tangled his fingers deeper in the curls, holding Sherlock close all through the vigorous applause, he couldn’t care less.


End file.
